“I wonder why you dislike me so, Miss Morton?” Miss Jones inquired sadly.

Madge could have given her a dozen reasons for her dislike, but she did not wish to be disagreeable.  “I am dreadfully sorry I was so rude to you,” she murmured.

“Oh, it does not matter.  Nothing matters, I am so unhappy,” Miss Jones replied unexpectedly.  Just why Miss Jones should have chosen Madge Morton for her confidante at this moment neither ever knew.  Miss Jones had a number of friends among the other girls in the school; but she and this clever southern girl had been enemies since Miss Jones had first taken charge of the English History class and had reproved Madge for helping one of the younger girls with her lesson.  Miss Jones’s confession had slipped out involuntarily.  Now she put her head down on the library table and sobbed.

With any other teacher, or with any of the girls, Madge might have cried in sympathy.  Somehow, she could not cry with Miss Jones.  She felt nothing save embarrassment.

“What is the matter?” she asked slowly.

Miss Jones shook her head.  “It’s nothing.  I am sorry to have given way to my feelings.  I have had bad news.  My doctor has just written me that if I don’t spend the summer out-of-doors, I am in danger of consumption.”  Miss Jones uttered the dreadful word quite calmly.

Madge gave a low cry of distress.  She thought of the number of times she had made fun of her teacher’s flat chest and stooping shoulders and of her bad temper.  After all, Eleanor had been right.  Illness had been the cause of Miss Jones’s peculiarities.

“Miss Jones,” Madge returned, her sympathies fully enlisted, “you must not feel so troubled.  I am sure you will soon be all right.  Just think how strong you will grow with your long summer holiday out-of-doors.  You must dig in the garden, and ride horseback, and play tennis,” advised Madge enthusiastically, remembering her own happy summers at “Forest House,” the old Butler home in Virginia.

Miss Jones shook her head wistfully as she rose to leave the room.  “I am afraid I can’t have the summer in the country.  I have only a sister with whom to spend the summer, and she lives in a little flat in the city.  She has a large family, and I expect to help her.  My parents are dead.”

“Then why don’t you go into the country to board somewhere?” flashed from Madge’s lips unexpectedly.  A moment after she was sorry she had asked the question, for a curious, frightened expression crossed her teacher’s face.

Miss Jones hesitated.  “I have had to use the money I have made by my teaching for—­for other purposes,” she explained, in the stiff, cold manner that seemed so unattractive to gracious, sunshiny Madge.  “I am sorry to have worried you with my troubles,” Miss Jones said again.  “Please forgive me and forget what I have told you.  I shall probably do very well.”